


Straunge Luves

by HSavinien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Car Sex, Crack, Inanimate Objects, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-22
Updated: 2008-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has a complicated relationship with his car...and enjoys shifting the fallout onto Aziraphale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straunge Luves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carnivorusthing@livejournal.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=carnivorusthing%40livejournal.com).



_And thee sarpent's charyotte wille divelop straunge luves, and he sharl bee wroth._   --Ye Farther Profecies of Agnes Nutter, Extemperal Wrytinges

* * *

 

"Slut."

"Beg pardon, my dear?"

"Not you, angel," Crowley growled.  "The car.  _My_ Bentley.  It's been...straying."

"What on earth are you going on about, Crowley?  I'm sure I don't understand.  Are you accusing your...automobile of forming attachments to someone or something else?"

"Yah.  Sneaky bugger.  I only figured out last night.  It forgot to put the windows down to let the interior air out and I could smell the oil.  I figure it's been doing the neighbour's Mini and the silver Murcielago Lambo from Kensington that was at St. James's on Saturday.  Better be careful.  Crafty, lusty thing's been casting a headlamp toward your bookshop when it thought I wasn't paying attention."

Aziraphale closed his book carefully and set it well out of Crowley's reach, brows creasing.  "My dear boy, are you sure you're feeling well?  It is a car.  Not a...a lover.  I'm fairly sure it isn't supposed to be sentient, much less lustful toward other _similarly inanimate_ objects."

Crowley slumped in his chair, eyeing the cup of cocoa resentfully.  "I know what I smelled and I know my car and the Bentley is hardly an inanimate object, it's...it's _my_ car! It's mine." He let his head fall back until it banged against the wall with a satisfying thump. "Blessitall."

The angel got up and laid a preemptory hand across Crowley's forehead, then tilted the sunglasses down to check his eyes.  Not unduly dilated, but Crowley was feeling a little cool.  "Would you like to borrow a jumper?"

"Yeurgh! No! What, do you want to add extreme aesthetic trauma to my pain?"

The angel's lips pursed in annoyance.  "I am merely attempting to assist you and determine the precise symptoms of your-"

"Bugger off, Mr Spock. I don't need a too-wordy lecture."

"-obvious delusion," Aziraphale finished icily.  "And as it's my shop in which you have decided to park said delusion, no, I will not 'bugger off.'"

"Fine. I'll go find somebody else to...I'll...go...I'll... Pah!" Crowley slammed his teacup down, stood so abruptly that he knocked his chair backwards, and stormed out of the shop. Aziraphale watched him go, peering out of the front window of the shop in some consternation.

Evidently the Bentley was a good three inches nearer the kerb than he'd left it.  The angel could hear Crowley's shout through the glass.  "Ssslut!"  Slamming the car door after himself, he roared off in a spray of dirty water.

Shaking his head, he wandered back to right the chair Crowley had knocked over. Catching a glimpse of off-white out of the corner of his eye, he bent down to pick it up. It was just a scrap of parchment, but it didn't belong to one of the books he had out for mending. One corner of the paper was marked, too, along what must be the edge of the page from which it had been torn. "Ye Farther Profecies of Agnes Nut—" Aziraphale broke off with a gasp, quickly scanning the rest of the words. "How in Anyone's name?" He dropped his eyes quickly, scanning the floor for more scraps of paper.

***

While a long, frustrating search earned Aziraphale no more than tired eyes and an unaccountably aching back—really, corporations were _not_ holding up as well as they had in the old days—Crowley took a long drive to relieve his feelings.  By the time he’d nearly reached Brighton, he was calmer.

Calmer, for Crowley, that is. He was ready for more amusing stress relief than a wild drive. He ran a slow hand over the dash, then downshifted smoothly.

“Ready to make things up to me, slut?” he purred.  Finding a deserted country lane, he expended just enough willpower to ensure that it would stay deserted for as long as he wanted.  Crowley stripped slowly, letting the motor idle as he discarded the artistically disheveled dress shirt and sharply creased trousers.  Slipping out of the car he stretched in the crisp air, then leaned against the bonnet and relaxed slowly.  Hard muscle flexed on almost too-hot metal, as Crowley slid his body slowly across the Bentley, then writhed deliberately.  “Mine... My pretty, shiny, ssslut...”  He rubbed his face against the heated steel, letting himself brush the car painfully purposefully.  “Mine.”

***

Aziraphale was, despite himself, concerned.  Crowley’s more-than-usually erratic behavior had him worried.  He sighed and pulled off his jacket, jumper, and shirt.  “I needed exercise anyway.”  With a brief prayer for the safety of his shop, he flipped over the sign on the door to read “Closed” and turned off the lights before heading for the roof.

***

The serpent, thoroughly warm now from the heat of the engine, slid down from the bonnet and slithered through the window into the driver’s seat to nap.

***

Aziraphale touched down in the dirt beside the Bentley, panting slightly and pinker than usual around the cheeks.  Winching in his wings to keep his back warm, he marched around to the right hand door and tapped imperiously on the window with a knuckle.  “Crowley, turn human-shaped again immediately.  You need to explain to me exactly what’s...”  He trailed off as the serpent poked its head up out of its coils and smirked at him.

“I wasss wondering how long it’d take you to sshow up.”  Crowley stuck his tongue out.  To taste the air, Aziraphale reminded himself in annoyance.  “Gotcha!”  It shouldn’t be possible for a snake to look that smug. He stretched out and out, scales melting away into pale skin, snapping his fingers to miracle his clothes back on.

“Are you quite insane?” Aziraphale asked in exasperation.  “Honestly, Crowley.”

“As I have shown neither an impulse for random destruction such as this earth has not yet known (the general angelic indication, if I recall correctly), nor any desire to rescue distressed orphans or adopt puppies for some purpose other than a late night snack, which is the usual standard for Hellish beings going off their nut...I’m inclined to say no,” the demon grinned. “How’d you like the prophecy?”

“So you arranged all that...that charade simply—?”

“To have something to talk to you about.” Crowley actually looked serene. “See if I could shake you up a bit. Though the Bentley enjoyed it too. You should have seen the scrapes I had to miracle off the undercarriage.”

“Snakes are _weird_ ,” the angel muttered in exasperation.

“But that’s why you keep me around, isn’t it.  I’m entertaining,” Crowley replied, grinning.  “‘Straunge luves,’ angel.”


End file.
